Armed and Expendable
by Toringtino
Summary: Captain Grimmjow Jaegerjaques is the proud and fearless commanding officer of the elite military unit Task Force 615; Ichigo Kurosaki, an exceptionally skilled Sergeant with an unfortunate callsign, is the FNG assigned under the blunette's authority. When Ichigo goes MIA after a botched mission, it's up to Grimmjow to 'bring the rain'... Yaoi. GrimmIchi. Inspired by 'Call of Duty'.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Bleach, nor any of the Call of Duty games. If I did happen to own either, I would probably be put on some sort of register for harassment and/or indecent misconduct to fictional characters. Not that it wouldn't be totally worth it...

**Warnings:** This story will contain violence, blood, warfare and yaoi. Basically all the good stuff.

Oorah!

* * *

**.:Armed and Expendable:.**

_"This is for the record. History is written by the victor. History is filled with liars. If he lives, and we die, his truth becomes written - and ours is lost."_

_Captain John Price, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2_

* * *

**_"Operation Kitsune"_**

**_Day 4 – 15:08:23_**

**_Cpt. Grimmjow 'Pantera' Jaegerjaques_**

**_Task Force 615_**

**_Rio de Janeiro, Brazil_**

It was hot and humid, the early afternoon air oppressive, the sun stifling. It was the perfect conditions for kicking back and chilling out, a cold beer in one hand and a smouldering cigar in the other, not for trundling down the still active Rio streets in a rusty old 4x4 with a busted radio and no air conditioning.

Fucking luxuries were always so damn hard to come by.

Decked out in a grey thermal with a protective kevlar undershirt, blue military issue combat trousers, heavy black combat boots and a pair of padded fingerless military gloves, it was fair to say that Captain Jaegerjaques was _sweltering_. Fuck uniforms, man! It's not like his choice of clothing was going to stop a speeding bullet and save his miserable hide. Well, his standard issue kevlar vest might… But that was besides the point! Christ, it was _too_ _damn hot_ to even think straight.

Pushing all inconsequential thoughts aside, sharp cerulean eyes kept an eagle watch on the dusty scrapheap for a van directly in front of their own vehicle, a cold sense of foreboding churning in his gut and putting him dangerously on edge. A swift glance over his left shoulder confirmed that his brother-in-arms, Sergeant Nnoitra Gilga, felt much the same if the death grip on his ACR was any indication. Their driver, a dark skinned Australian Task Force member, seemed to have a permanent tick in his jaw, but whether that was due to the ominous aura permeating the air or the fact that he had been ordered to transport the blue-haired Captain and his subordinate around without being privy to the details of their mission Grimmjow couldn't be sure.

Heh. _The perks of being a grunt-bitch_, he mused.

Reaching up to wipe the sweat beading on his brow with the back of his hand, the restless Captain grimaced at the feeling of dirt and grime coalescing and spoke into his comms. "Zero, the plates are a match."

There was a hiss of static in his ear before an echoic, indiscernible accent came through in response. "Copy. Any sign'a Ichimaru's associate?"

Shaking his head out of pure habit, Grimmjow replied, "Negative. We've stopped twice already, but there's been no sign of the slippery bastard." Noticing the van pulling up on the curb outside a nondescript hotel, Grimmjow furrowed his brows and sat up a little straighter in his seat. "Wait, we're stopping again. Standby."

Their driver rolled to a stop a discreet distance behind the tail just as two armed militia stepped out of the van, approaching a third figure walking from the lobby of the hotel. Grimmjow felt his lip curl at the sight of the scrawny fuck, recognising him instantly as their target – damn thug looked no older than sixteen, for crying out loud!

"Got a positive ID on Vega," Grimmjow growled into the comms, his trigger finger developing a sudden and quite violent itch. Knowing that he had to keep his cool lest he do something incredibly stupid, he turned his attention back to the militia. "Whoever these guys are, they're not happy to see our man…"

It all happened so fast, Grimmjow barely had the time to be surprised. Within the blink of an eye, their mark whipped out a semi-automatic Desert Eagle stuffed down the back of his khakis and killed both militia at point-blank range.

"Christ – Zero, we got a situation here!" Grimmjow relayed into the mic, watching with mounting dread as the target wasted yet another gunman who tried to bolt from the back of the van before turning his sights on the four by four. "Shit, get down! Get down!"

Nnoitra cursed and dropped himself flat across the backseat, whilst Grimmjow did his best to hunker his bulky, 6'2" frame behind the dash just as the first bullet tore through the windshield with a shattering crack. Ducking his head and protecting his face, he counted four additional shots penetrating the body and interior of the car before the barrage finally ceased. The resulting shower of glass raining down on his head and shoulders he was expecting, the splashing of wet warmth against his cheek and the continuous blare of the car horn, however, he was not.

Sparing a brief glance at the now deceased driver slumped lifelessly over the steering wheel, sporting a brand new orifice smack-bang in the centre of his forehead, Grimmjow dutifully ignored the blood and brain matter decorating the dash and barrelled from the car.

It was strange; comical even, how warfare could so drastically change a man from a humble, half-blooded Scot into a hardened killing machine that didn't so much as flinch when literally spattered with death.

Keh, comical indeed.

"He's getting away, Pan!" Nnoitra barked, the man's lanky frame already several paces ahead. "C'mon, let's go!"

Scrambling to catch up, Grimmjow could feel his previous dread morphing into a heady rush of adrenaline and practically snarled into the comms, "Zero, our driver's dead! We're on foot! Meet us at the hotel Rio and cut him off if ya can!"

"Roger. Am on my way."

As Grimmjow rounded the corner he couldn't stop the vicious sneer painting his lips at the few civilian bodies scattered about. Obviously in his desperation to escape, their mark saw fit to empty a few rounds into innocent bystanders in order to create a panicked chaos. It was a good tactic, no doubt, with terrorised civvies stumbling into Grimmjow and his men left and right, but what Vega failed to take into account was that The Six-One-Five was no ordinary military unit. No obstacle was too great it couldn't be overpowered, no mountain too high it couldn't be obliterated – and with the Task Force's current objective weighing heavily on his shoulders (_his heart_), nothing short of a M1 Abrams was going to stop Grimmjow from attaining their goal.

Shouldering his way through the frankly piss-poor attempt at mass hysteria, the Captain kept his eyes firmly locked on the target bolting down the road some twenty yards ahead. A hefty hunk of muscle and brawn running down the opposite side of the street, preceded marginally by a much slighter figure with a hidden visage and unnaturally pale skin, caught the corner of Grimmjow's eye and his lips quirked into a razor sharp smirk. With Zero and Mad Dog hot on Vega's heels, there was no chance in hell the jammy bastard was going to slip through their fingers.

"He ran into the alley!" Mad Dog huffed out in a laboured American accent, the energetic dash proving quite the feat for his hulking frame.

Sliding across the bonnet of an abandoned car, Grimmjow darted across the deserted road to join his comrades, Zero rounding the corner to the alleyway first, followed swiftly by Nnoitra, with himself and Mad Dog bringing up their six.

"Non lethal takedowns only, lads!" Grimmjow ordered sternly. He was _not_ going to lose this lead. "It's vital we take him alive!"

Zero may have initially taken the lead, but Sgt. Gilga didn't attain the callsign 'Mantis' for nothing, his exceptionally long legs effortlessly propelling him forward to take point around the next narrow corridor of the alley.

"I've got the cockroach in my sights," he declared in a husky Russian drawl.

"Affirmative, Mantis," Grimmjow replied, still lagging too far behind to see what was going on. "Take the shot, but aim for the leg. We need him down, not out."

"Da." A thunderous boom ricocheted off of the walls as Nnoitra fired, Grimmjow rounding the corner just in time to catch Vega crumbling to the ground with a scream of pain. "Tch…" Nnoitra sneered, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "How anticlimactic, no?"

Grimmjow snorted, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it, Nnoi. Ya'll have your massacre soon enough. I promise."

...

...

A short ten minutes and mild struggle later saw Grimmjow and Zero in a derelict warehouse, their captive, one Ggio Vega, bound and gagged to a chair haphazardly bolted to the floor. Zero, being a not-so-closeted sadist, was making a grand show of rubbing two jumper cables attached to an old car battery together, the resulting electrically charged hiss of high voltage juice and searing shower of sparks causing their mark to squirm rather beautifully in his seat.

With a malignant smirk, Grimmjow turned his attention to Nnoitra whom was waiting patiently for his next orders, the Captain silently proud of the bloodthirsty gleam to the Russian's dark eyes as he took in the sight of their helpless victim.

"This _interrogation_ might take some time, Mantis. Take Mad Dog and regroup with the Demon and the others." Sensing Zero was eager to kick off the festivities when he induced another sizzling thrum of the cables, Grimmjow rolled his eyes and reached for the rolling shutter above his head. "Scout the area for any tangos we may have alerted. We don't need any unnecessary interruptions. Remember, this is for Vixen."

Nnoitra smirked. "Da. For Vixen."

The last thing the gangly Russian seen before the shutter concealed the Task Force Captain and Lieutenant was Zero's maniac, molten gaze and Grimmjow's predatory, toothy grin.

* * *

_**18 months prior…**_

_**5 years after the death of Russian ultranationalist and terrorist Barragan Louisenbairn**_

Lieutenant General Kensei Muguruma heaved a long-winded sigh. These days it seemed like the banes of his existence were a dime a fucking dozen, heavily outweighing the joys which were a few too far between. It seemed with each passing year the cons gained an extra mile on the pros and he had to wonder where the fuck his youth went. He really was getting too old for this shit…

"Good news first, sir?"

Ah, speaking of banes…

Resting his cheek on his fist, General Muguruma raked his gaze over the lazy lump of bones sitting across from him. Captain Coyote Starrk, callsign Papa Wolf, was undeniably one of the finest damn soldiers the silver haired superior had ever had the good fortune of working with; a former Lieutenant in the 22nd SAS Regiment, a British special forces soldier, and now senior field commander of the newly formed elite unit Task Force 615, the man was truly an unsung hero. However, looking at him now lackadaisically reclined in the genuine leather chair opposite, mud caked boots propped up on his expensive cherry wood desk with no apparent care in the world (or respect for authority), it was oftentimes hard to remember _why_ he held the slovenly man in such high regards.

"How many times have I told you not to put any single one of your body parts on my desk? Unless you particularly want to lick it clean, I suggest you get your goddamn feet off of my property."

"Maa, but surely my drool would be so much worse than a little dirt?" Starrk countered easily, making it quite apparent that he hadn't the slightest intention of relinquishing his comfortable position. Kensei simply cut his losses with a huff and scrubbed a hand down his face in defeat. "So, the good news is; the world's in great shape. We finally rid the world of one tyrant, and another pops up in his place like a daisy in the dust."

"Or a virus in the mire," Kensei scoffed, leaning back in chair and steepling his fingers. "So, who're we looking at through the crosshairs now?"

"His name is Sosuke Aizen," Starrk muttered with no lack of malcontent. "He was one of Barragan's former Lieutenants, and is the mastermind behind the attacks against Europe. He's one sick son of a bitch, sir, with twice the support of Barragan and about ten times the crazy."

Kensei pursed his lips, his fingers interlocking beneath his chin. "Just another day at the office…"

"Mm. Gin Ichimaru," Starrk continued, stifling a yawn behind his hand in spite of the rather grim circumstances. "Aizen's right hand man and currently the most powerful SOB in the South of America. Intel's keeping a close eye on him."

With little else to do, Kensei gave a solemn nod. "And the bad news…?"

"We've got the new guy joining us today," Starrk replied with a lopsided grin and something of a cheeky gleam to his eyes, the combination instantly raising Kensei's stress levels.

"Yes, I remember you putting the request in for his transfer some months ago. Assured me that he would be 'worth the headache'." Which it really hadn't been thus far considering Starrk had left _him_ with all of the reassignment paperwork to do… "So, Captain; who is this boy?"

"One unafraid to put his nuts in the meat grinder for Queen and Country, sir. His name's Vixen."

General Muguruma frowned, and Papa Wolf chuckled.

* * *

_**"F.N.G."**_

_**Credenhill, UK**_

_**Sgt. Ichigo 'Vixen' Kurosaki**_

_**Task Force 615**_

_**SAS Training Grounds**_

"Position five, go go!"

Ichigo rushed out the makeshift door of area four of the mock-up enemy base, the issued MP5 poised and ready as he sprinted toward the crudely marked position five, the vibrant scarlet spray paint marking each section with large, circled numbers and a copious (unnecessary) amount of directional arrows.

As he entered area five, minding to step over the slight lip to the entrance after the embarrassing stumble into position three, he had but a heartbeat to gather himself before the next two sheet metal targets depicting somewhat stereotypical terrorists popped up. Gunning them down as accurately as his adrenaline saturated system would allow, he hadn't long to wait before the next instructions were hollered out over the PA system in the old aircraft hanger-turned-training-room.

"Move your ass, Kurosaki! Six, go! Toss a flashbang through the door!"

Pulling the non-lethal explosive device from his belt, Ichigo pulled the pin and pitched it through the opening before diving for cover off to the side of the doorway. Knowing firsthand just how disorientating and unpleasant the effects of a stun grenade could be, the young Sergeant had little desire to feel it's effects ever again – let alone by his own damn hand.

Stealing a precious moment after detonation to regroup, Ichigo swung around into the room, competently dispatching the two targets lurking in wait for him.

"Final position, FNG! _Move move move!_" came the final command, Ichigo wasting no time in barrelling through the final door and racing toward the giant red circle painted on the concrete flooring with the word FINISH scrawled above it.

Unable to stop the momentum, Ichigo skid right past the mark, dropping down to one knee as the dizzying rush took him to all new highs. Man, he hadn't felt this buzzed in years! And all from a simple CQB test, no less.

"Twenty-one point two seconds. Not bad, Sergeant." Ichigo glanced up at the man who'd been supervising him from the observation deck, his voice considerably more pleasant to listen to when not barking out orders like some rabid hellhound. "I've seen better – _much better_, but a good job nonetheless."

Taking the hand offered down to him, Ichigo allowed himself to be hauled back onto his feet and accepted the brotherly slug to the arm with a tentative smile. "Thanks, man."

He certainly hadn't known Second Lieutenant Shūhei 'Reaper' Hisagi for long; two, maybe three hours tops since he arrived on base earlier that afternoon, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he liked the man. In spite of appearances, which included cold, steely grey eyes, spiked raven hair and a gnarly, three stroke scar marring the right side of his face from hairline to chin (Shūhei didn't mention it, so Ichigo didn't ask), the man was surprisingly cordial.

With the more prominent members of The Six-One-Five currently off base on what Shūhei had described as "glorified custodian detail up North", the roguish looking Lieutenant had taken Ichigo under his wing; showing him around the barracks and mess hall, introduced him to some of the lesser members of the Task Force and managerial staff, before deciding to put the adequately dubbed "Fucking New Guy" through his paces with a few drills, some weapons training and a stint in the Close Quarters Battle arena. He claimed he wanted to see exactly what kind of mettle the newbie was made of, though Ichigo was willing to bet that his higher in command had perhaps noticed that he wasn't quite as cool and collected on the inside as he appeared to be on the outside. What better way to burn off excess tension and budding anxiety than with a rigorous workout?

Ichigo knew how inanely ridiculous it must seem. Honestly, getting nervous about the prospect of meeting his new team? That kind of bollox was reserved for rookies. He'd been in the military for seven years, for fuck's sake! Meeting new faces, acquiring new COs and moving from base to base wasn't exactly new to him anymore. Hell, with his particular skill set and expertise he'd not only raced through the ranks faster than most, but also been reassigned more than any other two men he knew combined. As silly as it sounded, he was hoping that this might be the last, that he might find something of a permanent family with The Six-One-Five, the "Best handpicked group of warriors on the planet" as General Muguruma told it.

He didn't want to be sold off to the highest bidder like some gun wielding whore anymore; he wanted stability, a band of men he could call his brothers, a place where he could finally settle down and call _home sweet home_.

Question was; would he find it here?

A sudden merry trill broke Ichigo from his reverie, his ochre eyes sliding over to Shūhei as he pulled a ringing mobile from the pocket of his fatigues.

"Reaper," the Lieutenant answered, listening intently to the voice on the other end. Ichigo wondered if the man was aware that he subconsciously straightened his posture, almost as if the one on the phone was standing right in from of him. Probably not. "Back already, sir? How was the assignment? Hmm. Yes. Sounds absolutely riveting, sir," Shūhei droned, the eye roll obviously implied in his tone. When he suddenly directed his focus toward Ichigo, the younger soldier had to suppress a flinch. "Yes, sir. He arrived earlier this afternoon. Mm. Yes, sir. The General, Papa Wolf and myself. Heh… Vixen." This time Ichigo really did wince. "I guess you'll find out for yourself soon enough. Roger that. We'll be there in ten, sir."

Hanging up, the Lieutenant pocketed his phone and turned fully to the noticeably anxious FNG, a wicked grin carving across his lips.

"Well, that's our cue newbie," he stated, slapping Ichigo on the back and directing him toward the jeep buggy waiting for them just outside the hanger. Grin ripping wider, he hopped into the driver's seat and waved Ichigo to join him. "Come on, Kurosaki. It's time to meet the lads."

With a stiff nod Ichigo clambered into the vehicle, his heart palpitating out of rhythm and palms lightly perspiring. For some bizarre reason, he just couldn't shift the feeling that he was being lead straight into the dragon's lair…

* * *

_**At the same time…**_

_**"Playing with the Big Boys"**_

_**Credenhill, UK**_

_**Cpt. Grimmjow 'Pantera' Jaegerjaques**_

_**Task Force 615**_

_**SAS Barracks**_

Grimmjow ended the call with a grunt, tossing the brick reminiscent mobile on the table in front of him. After a bullshit mission, followed by a lengthy debrief on just how bullshit the bullshit mission was, the Captain and the rest of his team were winding down in the barrack's rec room. Kicking his feet up onto the table, ankles crossed, Grimmjow laced his fingers behind his head and swept his eyes around the room.

Chameleon and Mad Dog were at the far end of the room playing a round of darts; the ever stoic Demon was reclined on the threadbare couch reading a rather beefy novel; Bones and Guru were at the beaten up pool table, both sitting up on the green felt surface conversing rather than actually indulging in the game; Hellcat was minding her own business at the next table, leafing through some godawful (and presumably quite dated) gossip magazine; and Zero was at the window to his left, resting on the sill with one leg propped up against the pane and the other dangling over the ledge, carving god only knows what into the wooden sill with his serrated bowie knife. Coupled with the ever present skull mask covering the entire lower half of his face, it was a wonder the man didn't attain the codename 'Fucking Psycho'.

Shaking his head, Grimmjow ran a hand through his short, tussled mohawk and sighed. After that complete and utter waste of their morning, he was tired, irritable and downright _pissed off_. What did the fucking management take them for? A fucking dumping ground for all the bollox jobs that the other units would step over their dead grandmothers just to avoid? The Six-One-Five was a special operations force composed of elite soldiers pulled from every fucking corner of the globe, created specifically for the apprehension and/or elimination of the world's most ruthless terrorists. Now, did that sound like a crew of men you assigned to clean up after another regiment's clusterfuck? Did they look like fucking babysitters?

No, he didn't think so.

"So, the FNG is on his way, da?" Nnoitra asked from across the table, the dark haired Russian meticulously disassembling and cleaning his rifle. Grimmjow merely grunted in affirmation. "What do we know about the guy?"

"Nothing much," Grimmjow shrugged. "Other than the fact that I've been told he's 'the shit' at what he does – whatever the hell that might be – I know dick all about the kid."

"Curious…" Nnoitra commented, switching out gun parts in favour of a cigarette. "Callsign?"

At this Grimmjow had to smirk. "_Vixen_."

Nnoitra quirked an inquisitive brow, lit cigarette dangling from his lips as he started to reassemble his weapon. "Sounds… interesting."

Before Grimmjow could reply, the door to the rec room creaked open and Second Lieutenant Hiasgi strolled in, bringing with him a sobering gust of chilly afternoon air…

…and the FNG.

...

...

If Ichigo had been somewhat nervous before, then he was outright sweating buckets right about now as he stepped foot into the decent sized recreation room and nine pairs of scrutinising eyes immediately turned in his direction, any and all chatter dying off until it mutated into a stale and uncomfortable silence.

Resisting the compelling urge to simply turn tail and run, Ichigo swallowed thickly and put as much swagger in his step as his waning confidence would allow. Stopping up beside Shūhei, he kept his head held high and his face intentionally neutral all whilst fastidiously refraining from making eye contact with any one member in the room.

"Alright lads – and lady," Shūhei addressed those assembled, clamping a friendly hand down on Ichigo's shoulder. "This here's the newbie, Sergeant Ichigo Kurosaki, otherwise known as Vixen. Ichigo, meet Task Force 615."

Ichigo didn't quite know where to look first; at the heavily tattooed beanpole of a man currently nursing a gleaming assault rifle; at the scrawny bespectacled guy with – no shitting – _pink_ hair; at the big breasted blonde whose cocoa skin tone and smokin' hot body positively screamed _porn star_; or how's about the skull-faced soldier with piercing golden eyes wielding a mean looking tactical knife? The possibilities were endless, and each one more menacing than the last.

The decision was eventually made for him, however, as a broad shouldered man sitting with his back to the door suddenly stood up and turned to face him. Ichigo's first (and crudely impulse) impression was a jumbled mass of adjectives all summarising to the same basic principle of; _"holy mother of Christ he's hot"_, which was instantaneously followed up with; _"he's going to rip me to shreds and enjoy every damn second of it"_. With sharp cerulean eyes set into a ruggedly handsome face complete with high cheekbones and chiselled jaw, a gloriously sculpted and war hardened body, and a shock of baby blue hair fashioned into a rumpled mohawk and shaven at the sides, this guy was** _all man_**.

Such a pity therefore that he didn't look all too enthralled to see Ichigo…

"Sergeant, this is Captain Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, callsign Pantera and your new CO," Shūhei informed him with a nod in the blunette's direction. "Go easy on him, sir. It's his first day stationed in the UK."

"Che, right," Grimmjow scoffed, crossing bulging biceps and thick forearms across his chest as that piercing gaze ran Ichigo up and down. "What the hell kind'a name is Vixen, anyway? I don't need no pansy-assed mamma's boy dragging down the rest of my team."

Ichigo scowled, falling back on his default emotion of fiery cantankerousness. "It wasn't my original choice. The name was chosen for me," he growled in response, adding a decidedly derisive "sir" as an afterthought.

Grimmjow curled his lip at the surly attitude of the FNG. Forget the kid's sunshiny tresses and devastating good looks, that sharp edge to the brat's tongue would land him in hot water and fast around here.

"Hit a sore spot, Sergeant?" Grimmjow rumbled, blatantly dropping the boy's rank to assert his own authority and clearly mark his dominance. "What's the matter? Your balls not drop far enough yet to stand on your own two feet and pick your own damn name?"

Deliberately ignoring the small audience they'd gathered, Ichigo firmly stood his ground, determined not to let the Captain's larger stature intimidate him.

"It wasn't like that," he began, his fists clenching at his sides. How many times was he going to have to tell the same goddamn story? "I was to be assigned the codename Fox because of my hair colour – astoundingly original, I know – but Overlord said it was no good. Reckoned it would cause too many complications with phonetic Foxtrot over comms. I suggested Kitsune as my new callsign, to which one of my ex-comrades suggested that Vixen would be better suiting." Ichigo could see that Grimmjow was itching to comment on that, something incredibly derogative no doubt, so he quickly ushered on before he had the chance. "Although Kitsune was officially accepted by the higher ups, I was constantly referred to as Vixen by the rest of the regiment. Eventually, to stop any further confusion over 'who the hell is Kitsune?', I adopted the callsign Vixen and have been known as such ever since. _Sir_."

"Wow. Your ex-buddy sounds like a total douche," Shūhei mused with a good natured chuckle.

"That's putting it mildly," Ichigo agreed tersely.

"Well Vixen," Grimmjow said, his mild Scottish brogue sneering over the name, "like it or not we're all stuck in this together. Keep your smartass comments to yourself and check your attitude at the door and we'll get along just swimmingly. As for the rest of these fuckers," he swept his arm out to include everyone else in the room, "I don't much care if ya's want to skip around holding each others hands or tear each other's throats out with your teeth – just do your fucking jobs and never let your personal shit interfere with the mission. If I so much as hear about a fucking _hangnail_ caused by a sodding lovers tiff, I will personally serve up your ass on a silver platter. Oorah?"

"Oorah," Ichigo echoed along with several others. Grimmjow gave a pleased nod.

"Alright, fan-fucking-tastic. C'mere, noob. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of our highly dysfunctional little family."

Ichigo took a tentative step forward only to be physically manhandled the rest of the way when the Captain fisted a hand in his shirt and gave a hearty yank. Stumbling awkwardly into Grimmjow's side, Ichigo was overwhelmed with the man's natural musk; a potent mix of sun soaked skin, dewy earth and virile man.

Overlooking the undignified blunder, Grimmjow slung an arm across his new subordinate's shoulders and squeezed, leaving his other hand free to point out each of the members under his command in turn.

"Right, here we go. Pinky and Perky over there," he mentioned, pointing over toward where the pink haired man with glasses and an imposing dark skinned male sat on a pool table that had seen better days, "that's Szayel 'Bones' Granz, our General Surgeon and resident screwball. He's as raving mad as he is German. The grizzly lookin' bear beside him is Private First Class Zommari 'Guru' Leroux, originally from France and a bit of a spiritualist."

"More like a fuckin' _quack_," was the cackled barb from the man in the skull mask, earning the guy a dark glare from Zommari and a not so patient eye roll from the Captain.

"The path to enlightenment is often hard for the simpleminded to comprehend," Zommari commented haughtily, his hands pressed together in a way Ichigo had never before encountered.

Eyes of molten gold narrowed, and Ichigo was willing to bet the masked individual was sneering. "The path can bend over an' take it like the little bitch it is."

"Jesus, here we go again…" Szayel groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in anticipation of the migraine he knew was imminent.

"Knock it on the head you two," Shūhei berated, a frown marring his lips. "This isn't fucking junior high. We're supposed to be setting an example here."

Zommari, taking the high and moral ground, conceded without further incident, leaving Zero to grin and chalk up his submission as a personal victory.

"Moving swiftly on," Grimmjow droned, almost like he was used to this calibre of bickering between his men. "Down the back there is Sergeant Yammy 'Mad Dog' Llargo. Unsurprisingly, there ain't a sinner alive that can take him on in close quarters. Doesn't matter if you're armed or not; the guy'll eat ya alive. The bad news is he's got a temper as wild and unpredictable as his American appetite, so let's be a good boy and watch them pretty lips, ne?" Ichigo didn't know whether to be offended as to the insinuation that he was naturally going to piss the colossal brute off, or embarrassed that his commanding officer had just referred to his lips as _pretty_. In the end he settled for an equal measure of both. "Next to him is Corporal Aaroniero 'Chameleon' Arruruerie, the finest damn stealth agent we have. If you need to be in and out without a trace, then Chameleon's your man. His ability to blend and deceive is so first-class, we sometimes wonder if he doesn't have other faces hidden behind the one that we see."

The Corporal seemed to take the compliment in his stride, twirling a dart between his fingers whilst Yammy snorted and smacked him upside the head with a big, beefy hand, physically reminding the younger that they had a game to finish.

"Is this going to take much longer?" a silky and distinctly feminine voice suddenly asked, drawing the attention of both Grimmjow and Ichigo to the knockout blonde. "Just because I'm contractually obligated to spend practically 24/7 with you morons does _not_ mean I want to smell like y'all as well. I would quite like to shower some time in this century, thank you very much."

"Ah, Tia. Thanks for volunteering," Grimmjow grinned, brazenly ignoring her question. "This feisty little mare is Sergeant Tia 'Hellcat' Halibel; our Puerto Rican Princess."

"I've told you not to call me that," Tia hissed like a feral cat, her harlequin green eyes slitting in anger.

Ichigo would have shied away from the venomous tone, if not for the solid barrier around his shoulders stopping him short. Ichigo had served with many women over the years, each and every one as skilled and competent as any man – but never before had he met one with such _bite_ before. It was like talking to 'one of the guys'. You know, if said 'guys' had an hourglass figure and killer rack.

It was at times like these that Ichigo cursed his sexuality…

"Halibel here not only provides the eye-candy we lonely soldiers so desperately require," Grimmjow went on, Ichigo silently admiring the man's stones to provoke the woman further, "she's also our pilot. Her bird is a state of the art MH-53 Pave Low dubbed 'Baby Doll', and together they'll see you out of a tight spot if ever you need it." Tilting his head down to covertly 'whisper' in Ichigo's ear, the Captain flashed a wolfish smirk. "Don't let those sloping curves and epic mammaries beguile you, soldier. Hellcat may be beautiful to look at, but it's the teeth ya got'a watch out for."

"Especially the ones in her vagina," Nnoitra pitched in with a wicked grin, earning a few chuckles around the room.

For the most part, Tia looked unfazed by the comment, leaving Ichigo to deduce that the only female member in the Task Force was constantly having her authority (not to mention gender) undermined by the predominantly male environment.

"We'll see how hard you laugh when I ram that gun so far up your ass you start hacking up bullets, fuck-tard."

Then again, it seemed like she could hold her own just fine.

Nnoitra merely barked out a laugh. "Ooh, kinky…"

"_Next_," Grimmjow stressed, effectively snuffing out the argument before it could begin and directing Ichigo's attention toward a man that somehow managed to make sprawling out on the couch look dignified. Perhaps it was the thick hardback book he had yet to glance away from that did the trick? Not wishing to disturb the stoic figure any more than necessary, Ichigo discreetly gave the man a cursory inspection. Dark raven hair, black varnished fingernails and bright emerald eyes all accentuated aristocratic British features whilst simultaneously making the petite man's skin look deathly pale. "Second Lieutenant Ulquiorra Cifer, codename Demon, former 22nd SAS regiment and infiltration expert. Trust me, if you know Demon's there then it's already too late. Doesn't talk much, as I'm sure you can tell. Just leave him be and he'll always have your back."

Ichigo couldn't quite repress the shiver that racked his spine when that cold, calculating emerald gaze shifted in his direction before seemingly dismissing him as inconsequential and returning to his book. Ichigo scrunched up his nose, trying (and failing) not to take offence before realising that Grimmjow had carried on without him.

"–crazy bastard right here is Sergeant Nnoitra Gilga, callsign Mantis. I'm sure you can spark two brain cells together to figure out why."

As Ichigo raked his ochre gaze over the individual in question, who was easily six-six and more limb than man, he couldn't help his scoff of, "Yeah. No shit, sir."

Grinning, Grimmjow flexed his arm around the FNG's neck. "Our Nnoi is a special breed of warrior. An ex-Spetsnaz operative who served in the Loyalist Army back home before a mutual associate suggested his talents might be put to better use here in The Six-One-Five."

_Ex-Spetsnaz?_ Ichigo mulled, brows cocked in genuine fascination. That was an elite Special Ops group in the Russian military. Impressive. It would certainly explain the extensive tapestry of tattoos covering the entire width and breadth of the man's arms – probably his hands and chest too if Ichigo were to hazard a guess. He was about to wonder how the appropriately dubbed Mantis got away with having hair that length when the Russian suddenly carded a hand through it, revealing that the whole underside was shaven, the multitude of elastic bands hugging his wrist most likely used to sweep it up into a ponytail to better clear his vision when out in the field.

"Again, don't let appearances fool you, noob. Mantis may not be much to look at–"

"Oi!" Nnoitra growled in annoyance, spitting out a few choice words in his mother tongue that escaped Ichigo's limited knowledge of the language.

"–but he's one tough sonuvabitch. With a personality as rough and unpleasant as his grating accent, he's the last guy you want putting you on his shit list."

Ichigo inclined his head to show that he was in fact listening, though his attention had already been ensnared elsewhere; namely by an exotic molten gaze swimming in a fathomless sea of obsidian that had been boring holes into the side of his head more or less since he'd stepped foot through the door.

Noticing where the FNG's focus had wandered, Grimmjow couldn't hold back the knee-jerk reaction to pull the boy closer to his side. "Hn, I see you've already caught Zero's keen interest…"

Ichigo knew that he was staring, something his mother had always taught him not to do, but he honestly couldn't help himself. _Zero_… Ichigo shuddered. He didn't even know the man, and yet he could tell already just how fitting the moniker was. It was unnerving to Ichigo, someone who prided himself on being able to read others with a certain degree of finesse, that he could only see half of the man's face, everything from the bridge of his nose right down to the collar of his shirt covered by that morbid mask with its skeletal grin. Ichigo could only speculate as to what he was trying to hide. Battle scars? Horrid disfigurements?

Or was it something much deeper than aesthetics…?

"With no known first or last name, no traceable birth certificate, dental records, distinguishable accent or fucking school report card to speak of, Zero's personnel files have more black lines than censored porn; he's a fucking ghost," Grimmjow informed him with a troubled frown, clearly apprehensive that he knew so little about one of his own team. "For the purposes of transcript and official documentation he's known as Lieutenant Sierra Zulu, which is basically a fancy way of saying Subject Zero. Hence the callsign. All you need to know is that he is lethal with any given rifle at any given range… and that he's your new XO."

Ichigo balked at that. His new executive officer? The very notion filled him with something not entirely pleasant, and as he finally tore his gaze away from those darkly seductive golden orbs he couldn't help but feel like that sinister mask was laughing at him.

Christ on a bicycle. What a bloody fine first day this was turning out to be. Perhaps he was a tad bit rash in hoping that this gang of high-class reprobates was going to become his new family…

Before he could further dwell on the fact that there was no conceivable way to dig himself out of the hellhole the likes of which Task Force 615 was turning out to be – short of dishonourable discharge for popping one or more of its members square in the mouth – the door suddenly opened behind him and a welcomed face entered the room.

"Ah excellent, you're all here," Captain Starrk commented with a clap of his hands and a fond smile in Ichigo's direction. "I trust all the introductions have been made and we're all functioning as one big, happy family?"

Oh god, there was that word again; _family_. Karma was such a bitch.

"Aye," Grimmjow confirmed, finally dropping his arm from around Ichigo to approach the only man he'd ever looked up to. "Don't know about the 'family' part, but we're all still in one piece if that's what you're asking. For now, at least."

"That's good enough for me," Starrk replied with a noncommittal shrug. "But enough pleasure; on to business."

This immediately perked Grimmjow and the rest of the team's attention. "We got a new assignment? Already?"

Nnoitra gave a deliberately obnoxious scoff. "The General never heard of downtime?"

"Maa, downtime is a luxury, Mantis. You should know by now that such privileges aren't included in The Six-One-Five's budget." Nnoitra rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath in Russian as he set about dismantling his ACR for the third time. Starrk wanted to cocked a brow but wisely chose not to comment. "Not to worry boys, this wonderful news pertains only to the Captain and our esteemed FNG."

Grimmjow and Ichigo managed to scowl in perfect synchronicity, a most amusing sight to all who witnessed the spectacle, though it was Grimmjow alone who spoke out.

"What're we looking at? And why do I get saddled with the fucking noob solo?"

"Hey, I'm right here, asshole!" Ichigo snarled, mentally pitching a fit when the blunette gave him a pointed glare and he was forced to bite out a scathing, "_Sir_."

Starrk chuckled, thoroughly entertained, though instantly wished he hadn't when that cutting cerulean gaze snapped to him next.

"It's nothing too taxing," he assured whilst idly thumbing his goatee. "An ACS module from a downed satellite has fallen into enemy territory. Obviously we need you to infiltrate and retrieve it before they crack it and make use of the intelligence."

"And the FNG?" Grimmjow inquired, disregarding the indignant hiss of the feisty little hellcat beside him.

Starrk concealed a knowing grin behind his fist. "Sergeant Kurosaki may have served in the military for several years now, but he is new to the dynamics of the Task Force. I want you to show him the ropes as it were; demonstrate how we operate as an elite unit. Oorah?"

Grimmjow bore his teeth and crossed his arms, casting his gaze off to the side like a petulant child told he would get no supper. "Oorah," he grumbled.

"Wonderful," Starrk yawned, already anticipating his next long overdue siesta as he about-turned. "Wheels up at 0200, gentlemen. I suggest you get yourselves sorted out."

"Wait, sir!" Ichigo called before he could disappear, Starrk pausing midstride and turning to glance over his shoulder. "Um… you never did mention where this assignment would be taking place?"

"Didn't I?" the elder Captain inquired in a tone that implied he was all too aware of the fact. "How silly of me. It's a Russian airbase in the mountains of Kazakhstan. Have fun, boys!"

With that the man was gone, the door swinging closed with a rueful _click_.

"Son of a bitch!" Grimmjow roared, cerulean pools blazing. Nnoitra and Zero outright guffawed at his unfortunate predicament, whereas the others merely snickered. Even Ichigo found himself cracking a mirthful grin, to which the incensed Captain immediately directed the brunt his anger. "I don't know what you're laughing at, mate. In case you've forgotten, you're the other half of this two-man fuck-fest. Best wrap up warm and get your beauty sleep, _Vixen_, 'cause you're gonna need it." Grimmjow then turned his ire to the rest of the vastly amused Task Force. "As for the rest'a you lazy excuses for soldiers, get the fuck out and do something productive before I put ya all on latrine duty for the rest of the sodding month!"

That being said, the livid blunette stormed out of the room, the door slamming against the frame with enough force to rattle the pane. Ichigo noticed that in spite of the Captain's threat – one with which he had no doubt the sadistic CO would gladly follow through – the rest of the men and Tia simply went back to what they were doing before they were ever interrupted. Although Ichigo wasn't one to readily disobey orders from his superiors, he was starting to get a feel for the group mentality around here. It wasn't so much that they were being malicious, or even disrespectful, but more that they had all developed a close-knit rapport in which they were able to distinguish the difference between 'Grimmjow the proud and confident Captain', and 'Grimmjow the Snarling Beast' who was full of nothing but hot air.

A hard slap to his back broke Ichigo out of his inner musings, not to mention had him pitching forward an unbalanced step or two. Glancing over shoulder, his half-hearted scowl slowly melted away upon finding Shūhei grinning down on him.

"Welcome to the 615, Ichigo. We may not be conventional, and the pay sure is shite… but damn if it don't feel like home."

_Home…_ Ichigo thought with a crooked smile and some very conflicted emotions. _Yeah. Why not?_

* * *

_"We fight not so that the world will remember us, but so that there will be a world to remember."_

_Captain John Price._

* * *

**A/N**: Yes, I've been gone for a while. A _long_ while as it so happens. Sorry, guys. (Belle! I still heart your socks!)

As y'all might be aware, writing is a serious passion of mine, that I try to indulge in whenever I find the time - but my other love will always be gaming. Hence this little gem. I went and replayed the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series, and totes fell in love with all the guys again - especially one John "Soap" MacTavish. What an absolute hunk.

So yeah, I went and created mayhem with all our favourite Bleach boys; their looks, nationalities, accents... Grimmjow is Scottish, _whuuuut?_ Unconventional, I know, and if it particularly bothers anyone then feel free to picture them any way ya please. I, for one, think that Grimmjow in the role as Soap is just... just... _puuurrrrrr~_ For those who want a better picture of what Grimmyums would look like here, simply look up John "Soap" MacTavish in Google images. Delicious.

Also, I realise there might be a lot of military jargon scattered throughout. Sorry if it was at all confusing. I tried to explain as I was going along, but feel free to tell me if I missed anything down the road.

Okay, so... there won't be much plot to this. For example, all that stuff with Barragan, Aizen etc you needn't pay much attention to - I absolutely cannot write a simple, straightforward story (believe me, I've tried!) and so bits and pieces of a thicker plot leaked out... But this will only concentrate on Grimmjow and Ichigo's developing relationship, finishing up at the beginning. So yeah, all other avenues of plot will remain undeveloped; they are merely there to beef up the integrity of the story. Sound good? Yeah? Okay.

All of the Bleach characters have characteristics/bios based off of the Call of Duty boys - brownie points to all who can guess who is who! Except Grimmjow, smarty pants... That's cheating.

I hope this won't be long. I don't want it to be long. I really didn't plan it to be long. I don't think I have the stamina for this to be like any of my other oneshot-turned-_whenwillthiseverend?!_ So I'm gonna be optimistic and say this will be over in three parts... But I guess we'll see, ne?

Again, so sorry for goin' MIA. I'm always around if ever any of ya need me, but sometimes I just don't have the time/passion/will/energy to write. Other stuff goes on, and it gets put on the back burner unfortunately, but I promise I'll always come back~ Probably...

Please do enjoy if ya feel so inclined, my sweets.

Peace

**Toringtino**

~**x**~


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Bleach, nor any of the Call of Duty franchise. I am but a humble fan (_rabid yaoi-loving psychopath_) who enjoys meshing products together so that we all may benefit from the sweet, slash flavoured love-child.

To **odieme**, who didn't log in for me to respond personally; You, madam (sir?), made my day. You friggin' _nailed_ everybody - I couldn't stop smiling, jus' knowing that there was another CoD fan/nut out there. Soap and his laddies are appallingly unappreciated. No justice I tell ya. I was pleasantly impressed that you figured Shuhei was Gaz, and Ulquiorra as Allen, especially when the only clue for Shu was the fact that he ran Ichigo through the mock-up CQB and for Ulqui the fact that he was an infiltration expert. You deserve a whole freakin' brownie _cake_, babe! Kudos~ ^^

* * *

**.:Armed and Expendable:.**

_'Here on out, we're for just one thing: **Redemption.**_

_Finally. **Back in the fucking fight.**'_

_Entry from 'Soap's Journal'_

* * *

_**Present day…**_

_**"Operation Kitsune"**_

_**Day 4 – 15:21:47**_

_**Sgt. Nnoitra 'Mantis' Gilga**_

_**Task Force 615**_

_**Rio de Janeiro, Brazil**_

"Right. You heard the boss. Mad Dog, on me." Taking a left away from the warehouse-turned-interrogation-chamber, Nnoitra and Yammy headed in the general direction their target Vega had been headed before he regretfully lost his right kneecap. Chuckling maliciously to himself, the Russian directed his next question into his comms. "Demon, you read me? Come on, ya uppity limey bastard, I know you can hear me…"

There was a pregnant moment of static interference, to which Nnoitra and Yammy exchanged a knowing eye roll. Stoic fucking marksman.

"Oi, shorty!" Yammy snapped into his mic as he and Nnoitra took up position behind a dumpster overlooking the decrepit shantytown. "We ain't got all damn day here, ya know! We're about to advance upon the favela an' we could really use that scope of yours – what's your ETA?"

"There is no need to bellow like a mindless beast, Sergeant. I can hear you perfectly well," came the cold, chiding reply of the Englishman. "Chameleon, Reaper and I are roughly half a klick out from your position. Proceed without us. We will soon catch up and provide cover-fire."

"Oorah," Nnoitra and Yammy chimed together. Looking to one another, they gave a nod and readied their weapons. "Remember, Mad Dog – there are civvies out there. Keep it tight."

"Rog' that," the American replied, slinging his SCAR-H assault rifle over his back and drawing a .44 Magnum from its holster at his hip. "Let's do this, yeah?"

Nnoitra smirked. "Da, _мой брат_. No one leaves with a breath in their lungs. All must pay." Holding up his fist, the Russian narrowed his steely eyes in conviction. "For our lost lamb; our Vixen."

"Fuck yeah!" Yammy cheered, bumping his fist with Nnoitra's in spirited camaraderie. "Let's show these cocksuckers exactly what the Six-One-Five's made of!"

With identical shit-eating grins plastered across their mouths, the two Task Force members sprang out from behind their cover and leapt down into the densely populated favela, their grand entrance received with the cries of fallen enemies and an almighty hail of smoking bullets.

* * *

_**18 months prior…**_

_**"Cliffhanger"**_

_**07:35:56**_

_**Sgt. Ichigo 'Vixen' Kurosaki**_

_**Task Force 615**_

_**Tian Shan Range, Kazakhstan**_

It was fair to say that Ichigo was a well-travelled man. With seven years of military service under his belt there wasn't a continent left that didn't have the impression of his boots firmly trodden into its soil by now. China, Nigeria, Turkey, Cuba, Bolivia, Ireland… You name it, he's seen it – got the t-shirt and everything. But here now, perched precariously on a too narrow ledge situated thousands of feet up some godforsaken, snow capped mountain he couldn't help but think that _this_ was certainly a new experience to cross off the proverbial list.

Whether it fell under the 'pros' or 'cons' category he had yet to determine…

Huddling down into his thick, fur lined protective coat (that was protecting him from _jack shit_ to be perfectly frank) he turned his gaze towards his CO. For being stuck out in the subzero mountainous terrains of Tian Shan, dusted with a thick layer of frost from the harsh snowfall, he couldn't stop himself from noting how cool and collected Captain Jaegerjaques appeared to be. Here he was, teeth chattering and muscles seizing up from the paralysing winter winds, praying to any deity that would listen to _pleaseplease__**please **_spare his nads from the inevitable frostbite – and the fucking blue-haired Scot was hunkered down to his right, face and posture painted in relaxation, enjoying a crafty smoke for fuck's sake!

Ichigo always imagined he would go out like a hero; in a blaze of gunfire whilst valiantly protecting a terrorised civilian or fallen comrade… not frozen to the side of some colossal rock in the ass-end of fucking Kazakhstan all because his CO is a selfish nicotine fiend. Such bullshit, man.

At long last, the cherry of Grimmjow's cigarette caught up with the butt, the blunette releasing his final inhale that Ichigo figured was more fogged breath than actual smoke and flicked the still smouldering remains over the ledge.

"Breaks over, Vixen," Grimmjow informed him, fixing his thermal beanie hat atop his head before carefully finding his footing. "Let's get a move on."

Ichigo scowled as he followed his Captain's example and cautiously stood up, biting back the scathing retort sitting on the tip of his tongue. Just whose idea was it to take a goddamn break in the first place? Not his, that was for fucking sure.

Pressing his back in tight against the rock face, he and Grimmjow slowly edged their way along the tapered ledge, Ichigo's heart pulsing in his throat as he studiously kept his attention focused on the blunette and away from the glaring snowy abyss laughing up at him from miles below.

Intermittently checking on the FNG, whom looked a damn sight paler than the cold weather permitted, Grimmjow motioned for the kid to stop.

"This will do," he said, shifting his rifle behind his back and taking up the two ice pickaxes secured around his wrists. They were close to the top by now, just another hundred feet or so up the cliff and they'd be right on top of the Russian base. Fucking covert operations; such a pain in the ass. "Stay here and spot me. Wait for my go."

"Sir," Ichigo replied with a nod of confirmation.

Satisfied, Grimmjow sank the right axe into the ice by his head before daringly swinging his body out over the ledge and hammering in the left pick. Now facing the mountain, the Captain quickly found purchase in the icy wall before him with the aid of his spiked climbing boots and gradually began to pick his way up the sheer peak.

No further than a meter up, Grimmjow called over his shoulder to his subordinate. "Alright, Vixen, the ice is good. Follow me."

Swallowing down the knot of nerves lodged in his throat, Ichigo mimicked Grimmjow's actions to the T, and soon the two of them were delicately scaling their way up the glacial mountainside. All was going smoothly, their progress sluggish but precise, when an enemy fighter jet suddenly passed overhead, the roar of its engines making the air tremble and the mountain shudder. Ichigo pressed himself flush against the ice, blanching when it vibrated against his chest as he waited it out, the jet having long since disappeared into the horizon but the mountain still groaning in the aftershock.

Chancing a glance upwards, Ichigo felt his blood run cold when the more fragile ice near the top of their climb splintered and shattered, compromising the already shaky integrity and causing Grimmjow to lose his footing as well as his left grip. For one sobering, heart-stopping moment the blunette's body was suspended in mid-air, hanging like a boneless rag doll as he vehemently clung to his one remaining handhold. Ichigo tried to call out to him, tried to compose his frazzled neurons and hurry to his aid, but his every limb was numb, paralysed with fear.

Alas, his panic was unfounded as, true to form, the bull-headed Captain landed on his feet, swiftly righting himself with no assistance needed and continuing on like he hadn't nearly plummeted thousands of feet to his untimely and gory death. If only he could kickstart his lungs into some semblance of functionality again, Ichigo might have laughed at the man's unflappable stubborn streak.

Perhaps there was more to Grimmjow's feline callsign than mere slick cunning and savage grace?

When Ichigo finally caught up with his superior, hauling himself up over the lip at the top of the wall, he barely had a moment to fully appreciate the solid ground (read; _snow_) beneath his feet before Grimmjow approached with a manic grin tilting his lips.

"Not far to go now," he said with a jut of his unshaven chin, indicating the meagre fifty foot vertical climb separating them from the summit.

Ichigo peered upward, eyes pinching against the howling winds, wondering how on earth they were supposed to find any kind of solid leverage through such a thick layer of frost – specialised climbing gear regardless – when a solid pop to the shoulder literally knocked him back into focus. His irritated glare soon wilted into wary frown upon catching the wicked gleam in those charming sapphire eyes.

Whatever Grimmjow had planned, Ichigo already didn't like it.

"Good luck, mate," the blunette said, his Scottish baritone positively devilish. "I'll see ya on the other side, ne?"

Ichigo blinked, a million and one questions buzzing through his head all at once – all with the same underlying theme of _'what the bloody hell…?'_ – but before he got to voice a single one of them, Grimmjow took off running. Ichigo could only watch with wide ochre eyes and a slackened jaw as the blunette propelled himself from the edge of the snowy platform on which they now stood, his body disappearing from sight into a thick foggy haze.

"Captain!" Ichigo cried, racing toward the brink and expecting to see, well, _nothing_ he supposed; what with his batshit crazy CO having nosedived into fucking oblivion. When the frosty mist slowly dissipated, however, a rush of relief warmed Ichigo's veins when he caught sight of the blunette firmly adhered to a more substantial icy overhang across the small chasm separating them. "You're a sick son of a bitch, sir!" Ichigo berated, grinning in spite of his rising incense.

He heard Grimmjow bark out a laugh, the acoustics of the valley carrying his voice surprising well. "Don't be such a pussy, Vixen. Get that shapely arse over here on the double, soldier!"

Cheeks already rosy from the cold flooded with heat at the crude comment, Ichigo grumbling obscenities under condensed breath as he backed up to get a good running start. Stiff fingers flexing around the grips of his ice axes, the orange-haired Sergeant inhaled a deep, bracing breath, releasing it slowly through his mouth before pitching forward into a short sprint.

Launching himself off of the ledge, there were a few heart-pounding seconds where time seemed to grind to a crawl and the young soldier felt completely weightless, like a sated falcon gliding listlessly through the clouds, before gravity promptly smacked him in the face and wrenched him back down to earth. Throwing both arms forward he scrambled for purchase against the frozen rock face, his axes declining to latch and shearing through the ice like a hot knife through butter.

Grimmjow, having heard the commotion below, glanced down just in time to witness Ichigo fail to stick the landing and begin a treacherous descent down the ice. "_Shit_ – hold on, Kurosaki! Don't let go!"

The words were completely lost on Ichigo who was so damn certain that this was the end he could only cling on for dear life as he slid rapidly toward bottom of the overhang. He lost his right grip at the base and felt his stomach drop to the soles of his feet when his gaze helplessly strayed after the falling ice into the misty depths miles below where his body, _his life_, now hanged in the balance.

Choking on a panicked whimper, he quickly grappled for the remaining ice pick with both hands, his terrified mind failing to process that he was foolishly supporting all of his weight on a tool that had struggled to hold him when the load had been divided. Even over the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears, Ichigo was able to hear the telltale creak of splintering ice, knowing that any nanosecond now it was going to rupture and break and send him hurtling to his death, where nothing of his memory would remain but a bloody smear at the base of the mountain.

Then, like a guardian angel sent from the arctic heavens above, Grimmjow was suddenly _right there_, his gloved hand appearing from out of the mist just as Ichigo lost his tentative grip and began to fall. Wild cerulean eyes, filled to the brim with an emotion Ichigo couldn't quite decipher, stared down hard at him, those powerful fingers wrapped in a death grip around his wrist.

"Don't worry, kid, I got ya… I got ya…"

Nodding dumbly, Ichigo readied himself as Grimmjow arduously heaved him to the left, sharp teeth gritted in exertion, and then used the momentum to swing him up to the right. Ichigo immediately latched onto the ice with both axes and painstakingly restarted his ascent – deliberately choosing to ignore the deep gouges left behind from his plummet and the way it made his stomach roil like acid in a blender.

He didn't stop until he'd reached the very top, hauling himself up and over the edge and rolling himself a good few feet away. When Grimmjow caught up, he found Ichigo sprawled out on his back in the snow, his pallor sickly and breathing sporadic at best.

Giving the boy a moment or two of privacy to collect himself, Grimmjow busied himself with checking his FAL, ensuring it hadn't seized up in the freezing temperatures. He knew it was highly unlikely, but he didn't want to make it obvious that he was pitying the lad. Unfortunately for them all, dying on the job was little more than an occupational hazard; came with territory, so to speak. That didn't mean that near-death experiences didn't rattle you to the very core every damn time, though. It was something a man never really got used to, no matter how often it occurred.

You could be a man forged of titanium bones and brass balls – but that ain't going to make you invincible. Each and every one of them were only human, after all; armed and expendable… and they all knew it.

How fucking depressing, ne?

"C'mon, Vixen," Grimmjow grunted, shucking his ice climbing gear before prodding the Sergeant in the ribs with the toe of his boot. "We got a mission to complete, remember? We cannae afford to hang around here all day."

Ichigo visibly winced at the poor choice of words, and Grimmjow silently cursed himself. _Hang around?_ Fucking hell…

"On your feet, boy," Grimmjow ordered, wisely sidestepping the blunder as he offered his hand out to his brother. "This ain't like the Sunday school bullshit you've been used to in your other platoons – you're in the Six-One-Five now. We take our orders and _we_ _get shit done_."

Ichigo cracked a smile, grateful for the consideration and earlier grievances forgotten as he slapped his hand into Grimmjow's and let the Scot haul him to his feet. "That our official motto, sir?" he asked, flashing a cheeky grin as he brushed the snow off of the back of his trousers.

Grimmjow's top lip twitched, pulling back into a sharp toothed smirk. "You better fucking believe it, Vixen. Now stop pussyfooting around and put your big boy pants on; it's time to get down to business."

"Aye aye, Cap'n," Ichigo snorted, giving a mock salute as he readied his own weapon.

Grimmjow chuckled, striking out with frightening speed in spite of his restrictive winter clothing to capture Ichigo in a headlock. "Christ, kid. You're gonna fit in with the Task Force just fine!"

"With all due respect, _sir_," Ichigo groused, tousling with his Captain as he fought to free himself from the demeaning position, "get your fucking hands off of me!"

Still laughing even as the riled up Sergeant landed a heavy blow to his gut with a padded elbow and wriggled out of his hold, Grimmjow straightened himself out and swaggered on ahead, ruffling Ichigo's sunshiny tresses as he passed.

"Come on, princess. That ACS module isn't going to salvage itself."

Glaring at the blunette's retreating back, Ichigo bent to swipe his beanie up off the ground (the hat having fallen off during the minor scuffle) and trudged through the thick blanket of snow some feet behind his commanding officer…

…fighting a warming smile all the while.

…

…

_**Back at base later that afternoon…**_

_**"Team Player"**_

_**16:47:31**_

_**SAS Barracks**_

"…Next thing I know the hanger doors are bustin' open and I've got a whole _horde_ of Russian scum on my ass – no offence, Mantis – with basically nothing but my dick in my hands. Meanwhile Vixen is upstairs, searching for the downed satellite module, an' has no fucking clue that I'm about to have my pretty face blown from existence…"

"Russian scum?" Nnoitra growled, none too pleased about having his people belittled – enemy status notwithstanding.

"_Pretty_?" Zero chimed in with a mordant cackle, just because he loved to rile the Captain up.

It had been a long and tiring day for Ichigo, both physically and mentally taxing, and now that he was back within the safety of the barracks, there was really nothing else on his mind but a long, scalding hot shower and a well deserved rest in his bunk. But oh no, not only had he been denied these simple pleasures, he also had to sit and relive every fucking second of the horror that was their mission, with Grimmjow sitting up on the tabletop in the rec room like some kind of sadistic, blue-haired raconteur.

Just _peachy_…

To be fair though, Grimmjow had a certain way with words, a captivating lilt to his voice that seemed to draw the attention of everyone around him. Take right now for example; the entire Task Force was gathered around the table to listen to the man spin his tale of adventure and bloodshed, eating up his every word like chickenfeed from the palm of his hand. Even Ulquiorra, who was feigning disinterest over at the far end of the table, nose once again buried in printed text, was glancing up every now and again in Grimmjow's direction.

"So there I am, hands in the air, trying not to move a fucking muscle in case they decide to fill me full'a holes whilst simultaneously ordering this dimwitted gobshite," here he jammed a thumb in Ichigo's direction, "to get a fucking move on and execute plan B. To which he starts screamin' in my ear that there is no plan B, that we never talked about a plan B…"

"Ooh, rookie mistake, Vixen," Shūhei tutted facetiously to Ichigo's right. "In the Six-One-Five there's _always_ a plan B."

"Ah, ah! I know!" Zero exclaimed, waving an arm frantically in the air. "The C4!"

Grimmjow smirked, sending Ichigo a covert wink. "Bingo."

"Ha! Fuckin' _nailed_ it," Zero crowed, spectral mask grinning obscenely and tone smug as he crossed his arms behind his head.

"Not a moment too soon, our little noob detonates the charge and _**boom**, baby!_ We lay waste to every motherfucker in sight an' hightail it out'a there, throw ourselves down a snow bank and hijack a couple'a snowmobiles – though not before Vixen _bitched _that he didn't know how to ride one…"

"Hey!" Ichigo protested, paying enough attention to know when he was intentionally being insulted. "I said that I hadn't ridden one in years – there's a difference, _Captain_. Not that it mattered anyway, the engine was shot to hell and leaking fuel all over the place."

"Hm, let me guess…" Szayel spoke up from the other side of the table, mustard eyes glinting with mischief as he pillowed his chin in his palm. "Our Captain oh so gallantly offered to let you cosy up behind him?"

This earned a round of stifled snickering, to which Ichigo scowled and averted his gaze, huffily crossing his arms over his chest. Grimmjow wasn't deterred in the slightest, obviously more than accustomed to the provocative badgering of his team by now.

"Too damn right I did," he declared, almost like he was proud of the fact. Against his better judgement, Ichigo felt his chest swell with something akin to warmth at the bold statement, gingerly turning his attention back to the blunette. Grimmjow grinned down on him, and there was something predatory in that look that had Ichigo's next breath catching in his throat… "Do you morons have any idea just how much paperwork I would have to fill out if he got his ass killed on the field? Let alone on his first assignment? Like hell I was gonna leave him behind!"

And just like that Ichigo visibly deflated, slumping back in his chair and shaking his head in apparent dismay. However, that didn't stop Grimmjow's astute observational skills from catching a short glimpse of the sly little grin the FNG tried to conceal, like he knew better, and the CO felt his insides knot in a not entirely unpleasant fashion at the sight.

_Something worth further investigation_, Grimmjow mused to himself, reluctantly tearing his cerulean gaze away. _Later_, he decided.

"So off we go, me at the wheel and Vixen at the trigger," Grimmjow continued animatedly, his hands gesticulating wildly with enthusiasm. "I'm dodging trees left, right and fucking centre, whilst Kurosaki deals with the heat coming at us from all sides – I'm tellin' ya lads, we have real NBK on our hands here. I was gunning it over a hundred, and our boy Vixen was poppin' tangos like they were pop-up targets in The Pit!"

Ichigo's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as several pairs of eyes turned to regard him, all displaying a myriad of different emotions; Zero's molten gaze fixing him with a carnivorous sort of glimmer and Shūhei giving him a proud, brotherly dig on the arm. Ichigo didn't know what to say – never having been one to blow his own horn – and so simply slouched down further in his seat and said nothing at all.

Grimmjow had the irrepressible urge to reach out and ruffle the boy's sunset orange spikes, much like he'd done earlier that day, but felt like it was different this time, that it might somehow be inappropriate in the current setting. Trusting his gut instincts implicitly (they had yet to ever steer him wrong) he obstinately resisted the temptation and cleared his throat, drawing the focus of his team back toward himself.

"One wrong turn and suddenly we're barrelling down a sheer slope – I've all but lost control of the snowmobile and Vixen's fast runnin' out of ammo. I'm thinking we're fucked; if I don't wrap us around a sodding tree, then Kurosaki's gonna get us mowed down when he can't pick off any of the Russkies still hot on our tail… and that's when I see it; our ticket out."

"Oh god," Ichigo groaned, burying his face in his hand as he relived every hair raising microsecond of the ordeal.

Aaroniero, curiosity well and truly piqued by this stage, sat forward in his chair, his hands gripping the backrest as he straddled it backwards. "Well? Come on, guys! What was it? How'd ya's get out?"

Deliberately pausing for dramatic effect, Grimmjow's lips curled into a wolfish smirk. "Oh, it was no big deal really – we just jumped a _three-hundred foot gap_ over a _gaping gorge_ hundreds of meters deep…"

Ichigo thought Aaroniero's eyes were going to bug right out of their sockets, though most of the rest of the team looked highly sceptical – and with good reason, too.

"Bullshit," Nnoitra droned, his facial expression coloured unimpressed.

"Seconded," Zero threw in his own two cents, his golden orbs narrowed in challenge to the outrageous claim.

"Of course it's bullshit," Ichigo scoffed, kicking his booted feet up onto the table. "Don't exaggerate, sir. It was probably about two-hundred feet – and that would be a generous estimate."

Grimmjow rolled his eyes. "Keh. Way to ruin the climax, newbie."

"I still call fuckin' bull," Zero snorted.

"Actually, I can vouch for that," Tia hummed from behind, lounging elegantly on the tattered couch and idly inspecting her cuticles. "I wouldn't have believed it either if I hadn't witnessed it with my own eyes. I saw the whole thing as I was coming in to land at the EZ." Without looking up from her nails, the blonde bombshell's full lips quirked up into a vulpine grin. "Moments before the Captain spun out and got pwned by a snow drift…"

A round of boisterous laughter erupted out amongst the team, whereas Ichigo and Grimmjow both winced at the still-fresh memory of being rocketed off of the back of the snowmobile; the FNG rubbing tentatively at the painful reminder throbbing on the back of his head and the blunette palming gingerly at his bruised shoulder.

"Oi, I was punchin' it over one-twenty – probably more," Grimmjow growled in indignation. "My only concern was making the gap, not what we should do if we actually landed it."

"'_If'_?" Ichigo grit his teeth, narrowing ochre eyes on his CO.

"Oh don't get your panties in a wad. We're both still here, ain't we?" Grimmjow dismissed with a wave.

"Yeah, no thanks to _you_," Ichigo sniffed with an air of superiority. "If you'd been in charge of the pistol we'd both be in much worse shape than we are right now."

Grimmjow bore his teeth in a snarl. "An' if you'd been behind the wheel we'd still be stranded on the other side of that goddamn ravine. Count yourself lucky that I've balls big enough for the two of us, _laddie_."

Ichigo couldn't be sure who moved first, but in the blink of an eye they were both on their feet, eyes locked and narrowed in challenge, Grimmjow easily towering over Ichigo's smaller frame but the fiery Sergeant refusing to back down, determined not to let size and rank intimidate him. He would not be bullied, commanding officer or no.

Grimmjow couldn't believe the gall of this kid, squaring up to him – _him!_ – and brazenly challenging his authority. It was like a pissy little kitten fluffing up its hackles and flashing those wicked little needle teeth. An impressive display, he could admit, but that's all it was; a display. Grimmjow had Ichigo in both stature and status – he could so very easily crush the boy under his boot, make his life a living nightmare… but he wouldn't. As much as he would love to assert his dominance, to show the fiery Sergeant _exactly_ who the true alpha of the pack was, Ichigo was a member of the Task Force now, one of _his_ men, and Grimmjow took good care of his own.

Staring down into those feisty orbs of amber, simmering as they were with defiance and animosity, Grimmjow couldn't deny that the lad intrigued him greatly. He had seen but a small modicum of what Ichigo was truly capable of today, and was hungry for the rest. This line of work, he'd found, tended to make a beast out of a man, and the spirited FNG was shaping up to be quite the animal indeed…

The shrill drone of the dinner bell startled both Captain and Sergeant from their heated standoff, both men blinking as if shaking off the remnants of a trance.

"Fucking finally," Yammy grumbled, unsurprisingly the first one to speak out and rise to his feet. "I'm starved."

Ichigo and Grimmjow took an awkward step back from one another as the rest of the Six-One-Five began to stir around them, their personal moment well and truly shattered.

"Aye, they should really be more sensitive ta your needs," Zero said in a consciously provocative tone as he hopped down from his perch on the table. "It's been what, two, maybe _three hours_ since yer last meal? _Shit_, man! What if ya'd jus' gone an' keeled over?"

Yammy merely gave a snort, shooting a withering glare over his shoulder as he exited the room. "Us _real_ men need a proper feed, twinky. I wouldn't expect some scrawny half-pint like you to understand."

"Scrawny? _Twinky_?!" Zero growled, fists balling at his sides as he raced out the door after the bulky American. "Oi, Llargo! Get yer fat ass back here – am'a feed ya them words for your fuckin' supper, ya twat!"

Zommari chuckled mockingly as he followed in their wake. "Business as usual, then?"

"It would appear so," Szayel muttered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger.

"Does Zero even eat?" was the passive question posed by Aaroniero as he walked out alongside Shūhei. "I mean, I've never seen him without his mask and he doesn't take any meals with the rest of us…"

Shūhei snickered, throwing an arm around the younger lad's shoulders. "Who knows? Zero is a man of many implicit perplexities. Some say he's wanted by the CIA and that he sleeps upside down like a bat…"

On Aaroniero's other side, Nnoitra smirked, tattooed arms folded behind his head. "I heard that he roams around the woods at night foraging for wolves, and that he once punched a horse _out cold_."

"Idiots," Tia admonished, cuffing the two antagonistic men around the ear. "Don't tell him that. Chameleon's susceptible enough to actually believe that crap."

"Aw, come on!" Aaroniero protested, looking for all the world like he was about to start pouting.

Ulquiorra closed his book with a definitive _snap_, the last to rise from his position at the table and leisurely walk out the door. "Morons," he uttered lowly, though not necessarily to himself.

Cocking a hopeless brow at the team's antics, only now realising just how much time and effort it would require to assimilate himself into the intricate dynamics of his new unit, Ichigo made to follow them out. He stopped abruptly at a firm pressure around his wrist, peering back over his shoulder to find his Captain holding him back.

"I meant what I said before, just so ya know," Grimmjow said, his jaw set and eyes tight like the words were uncomfortable to say out loud. "You're an excellent shot, soldier. I guess we're lucky that you're on our side, ey?"

Ichigo cast his gaze to the floor, a potent wave of humility causing him to rub at the back of his neck. "Ah, right. Um, thank you, sir." Biting his lip against the residual warmth that lingered against his skin when Grimmjow released his wrist, he inhaled a ragged breath and endeavoured to voice what had been festering on the tip of his tongue all damn day. "I never did thank you, for earlier. On the mountainside, I mean. I… I thought I was a goner for sure, and then– then _you_, out of _nowhere_… you really–"

"Don't mention it," Grimmjow quickly cut him off, feeling more than a tad uneasy with the palpable shift in atmosphere. Barely a week went by that he didn't find himself risking his mortal hide to pull one of his men out of some shitstorm or another, and similarly having his own ass bailed out of a tricky situation – it was all right there in the job description.

Recognition and accolades for being a good soldier he was used to, but gratitude and pleasantries for simply doing what any other decent human being would do? Not so much.

"You're one of us now, Vixen. I know we're mighty rough around the edges, a ragtag bunch of freaks better suited for the fuckin' loony bin than the military, but we're still a family; brothers in blood." Clapping Ichigo hard on the back, and ignoring the pitiful scowl he received in return, Grimmjow grinned down fondly on the kid. "I ain't ever gonna let you fall." The words were out before he could stop them, resonating with emphatic clarity in the silence between them, and he groaned internally at his lack of mental filter before adding a hasty, "Uh, that is, the _team_ and I will always be there to drag your sorry carcass back home when you inevitably go playing the hero and get your ass cut down to size."

The corner of Ichigo's lip twitched as he desperately tried to hold back a knowing grin at the Captain's little _faux pas_. "Of course, sir."

"Yeah, well… good. I'm glad we understand one another." Face twisting into his typical sneer, Grimmjow shouldered his way past Ichigo. "That bein' said, we gotta work on your PT. You're not fast enough; not strong enough. Starting tomorrow, you'll be training with me. Obstacle, circuit, lifts, runs… You know what time dawn breaks at, Kurosaki?" Ichigo could only nod, rendered speechless and any trace of his previous smile thoroughly wiped off. "Excellent. Set your alarm for one hour beforehand. I want to see you ready and rarin' to go by the hangers before first light touches the horizon." Sinful grin tugging at his lips, Grimmjow turned on his heel and threw open the rec room door with flourish, motioning for Ichigo to accompany him with a lazy wave. "C'mon, noob. We better get to the mess hall before that fat fuck Yammy eats our share and all. He's like a rabid dog once he gets scent of Chef's home cookin'."

Ichigo was momentarily rooted to the spot, mouth working open and shut, forming incoherent words with no sound, when the sound of the door swinging shut behind the blunette suddenly broke him from his flabbergasted stupor and, realising that he was being left behind, hurried out of the room after his still grinning Captain.

His immediate future sure was looking bleak…

* * *

_**Present day…**_

_**"Operation Kitsune"**_

_**Day 4 – 15:40:03**_

_**Sgt. Nnoitra 'Mantis' Gilga**_

_**Task Force 615**_

_**Rio de Janeiro, Brazil**_

Nnoitra couldn't remember the last time he was quite so exhausted; not since his selection days, at the very least. His breath was stuttering brokenly in his chest, his clothes clinging to every sharp-cut slope of his skin with sweat, his heart hammering tirelessly against his ribs… Their situation was looking more and more futile with every passing second. The enemy was relentless, and vast in numbers; they were ridiculously outnumbered and hopelessly outgunned. Coupled with the stifling Brazilian heat and the lucky bullet that had carved a deep gouge in his left thigh, he was just about ready to fucking collapse into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

Glancing to his right, Yammy looked to be in no better condition, the hulking man wheezing for breath and sporting several weeping grazes of his own.

The two were pinned down in one of the decaying shacks of the shantytown, hunkered beneath a shattered window from which the sounds of gunfire and frenzied screaming from militia and civilian alike could be heard.

"We got'a keep movin'," Yammy panted out on a laboured breath, swiping at a haemorrhaging nick on his cheek – a glancing kiss from a .50 cal that might have taken his head clean off had Nnoitra not literally booted his ass out of the way with little time to spare. "We're like sittin' ducks here. Ripe an' ready for the fuckin' hatchet."

"_идиот_," Nnoitra snapped, loading a fresh magazine into his ACR. "And what do you suggest we do? We're pinned on all sides, not to mention there's a sniper out there somewhere carving our names into his next bullet! Fucking Yanks, always in a rush… All of those fast food joints are screwing with your perception of the reality of our situation, my friend!"

"No need to get so pissy," Yammy growled in return, huffing when he couldn't stem the flow of blood from the persistent laceration. "Communist piece of shit," he grumbled tetchily as an afterthought.

Nnoitra was just about to round on the ignorant cocksucker, his fingers itching to wrap around that thick American gullet, when a loud explosion nearby stopped him short and shook the very foundations around them, fissures spiderwebbing up the crumbling plaster and fracturing the ceiling, showering them with a fine, powdery dust.

Glancing suspiciously at one another, the two men cautiously craned their necks to peer out the window, their brows furrowed as multiple tangos raced right by them, yelling and screaming at each other in their evident haste to book it out of the area. Those militia lagging behind were abruptly gunned down, blood spraying the ground like crimson rain as they choked on their cries and fell in a tangle of limbs.

"What the bloody fuck?" Yammy so eloquently queried as he and Nnoitra scrambled to their feet.

Cracking the door to the shack open, Nnoitra fastidiously checked their immediate surroundings, signalling for Yammy to follow once he was sure the coast was clear.

"It's about time you two got off your backsides and did some work," the smug and unmistakeable voice of one Second Lieutenant Hisagi taunted from behind.

Nnoitra didn't attempt to stop his derisive eye roll, pivoting in time to see Reaper appear from the dense, sandy cloud of dust and debris that had kicked up when the frag grenade detonated. Chameleon, Bones and Guru weren't far behind, Aaroniero and Szayel guarding each flank and Zommari bringing up their six.

"Took you guys long enough," Yammy disparaged with a grunt. "Any longer an' we'd have been fit for the butcher's window."

"_Please_," Shūhei grinned, Ray-Bans glinting against the golden rays of the sun as he swung his rifle up to rest over his shoulder. "We had ya – just had to make a grand entrance, y'know? Fashionably late and all that."

Nnoitra curled his lip. "_Соси́ мой хуй,_ 'fashionably late'! Where the hell were you when we had the entire militia army riding us, huh? And where the fuck is Demon? Don't tell me that pretentious English prick has–"

A sonic _crack_, not unlike an angry clap of thunder, curtly interrupted his thought mid-sentence as it echoed and ricocheted off of the walls and sheet metal rooftops around them, Nnoitra visibly recoiling as a large pockmark suddenly gouged out the earth by his left boot. Snarling at the cheap shot, his acute stormy gaze swept the horizon, honing in on a flicker of reflected sunlight as it bounced off of the glass lens of a sniper scope.

Aaroniero quickly repressed a grin behind his gloved hand, whereas the rest of the men had absolutely no qualms with openly mocking the incensed Russian.

"Well now," Shūhei said, snickering heartily, "I think that sufficiently answers your question, hm? Say hello, Demon."

"…I would rather not." was the monotonic response over comms, and even Nnoitra had to suppress from cracking a smile at the Englishman's predictably brusque attitude.

Joking and joshing around was all good and well, oftentimes acting as a welcomed reprieve from the ever looming shadow of their laughably fragile mortality, but a sudden hiss of static over the Task Force's frequency soon ground their companionable fraternisation to a halt, sobering their minds and reminding them _why_ they were there in the first place, so that by the time their Captain's deep Scottish brogue sounded urgently in their ears, all men were on high alert and ready to move.

"Vega cracked; we got Ichimaru's location but we were compromised! He's headed west along the rooftops of the favela." Nnoitra noted the breathless but razor-sharp edge to Grimmjow's tone, and knew that the blunette had to have been _tantalisingly_ close to their obtaining their objective before it apparently went tits up. "Zero and I will keep him from doubling back on our side – the rest of you push forward and cut him off up top! We cannot lose this bastard; he's our only solid lead to Vixen…"

"Roger, Captain," Shūhei replied, quick to step up to the plate. "Mad Dog, take Bones and Guru and head north, rally with Demon and sweep around to block any escape route the slippery son of a bitch might attempt. Chameleon and Mantis, on me; we'll head up the pursuit and cover the Captain's six. Oorah?"

"Oorah!" the team cheered, followed by the sound of multiple firearms cocking and loading.

"Good." Shūhei gave a curt nod, readying his own weapon. "Move out!"

…

…

_**Half a klick away…**_

_**15:46:22**_

_**Lt. (Birth Name Blacklined) 'Zero'**_

_**Task Force 615**_

Zero was racing through the favela like the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels, his ever trusty Intervention sniper rifle strapped across his back, its weight comforting and familiar, and a devastatingly powerful Desert Eagle clutched securely within his palm. Taking a sharp right down a dingy alleyway, the enigmatic soldier headed due west, hoping to catch up with his blue-haired Captain. During a brief skirmish upon locating their target, the two men had been forced to retreat and separate, presenting Ichimaru ample time to scarper into the shadows like the dirty cockroach he truly was.

Vaulting over a grime ridden old dumpster that lay in his path, the Lieutenant broke his fall with a neat tuck and roll on the other side, using the momentum to spring to his feet and take off in a sprint. Switching the frequency of his radio to that of his Captain and his Captain only, he hissed into the mic, "We don't have time to wait fer backup, Grimm. Don't let yer emotions blind yer natural instincts – we can do this _alone_."

There was a long moment where the only sound Zero could hear was that of his own harsh panting, presumably whilst Grimmjow also changed the channel of his comms, before the man's gruff voice replied. "Don't you think I know we can't wait for the others? _Damn it_, Zero – just get after Ichimaru! If anything, Mantis and the boys will keep the rest of the militia from regrouping an' coming after us."

"Fuck, _fine_!" Zero growled, quickly ducking behind a wall when he nearly barrelled straight into two tangos due to his distraction. Swearing colourfully when the two men began yelling frantically in Portuguese – likely alerting every damn enemy force in the _entire town_ – he whipped around the corner before they fired up more than one fucking brain cell and remembered that they actually possessed weapons of their own, expertly dispatching both with a single shot to the chest. "Goddamn greenhorn wankers… Now I got the whole damn town bearin' down on my ass!"

"Zero? Are you alright?"

If Zero didn't know any better, he would say that his Captain sounded genuinely concerned… "Nothin' I can't handle, boss."

He couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard the man laugh. "Just remember; this is their territory, and they know it well. Keep an eye open for ambush positions and check your corners."

It was Zero's turn to laugh, albeit resentfully. "What do I look like ta you? Some simperin' little novice? Don't insult me, Jaegerjaques!"

"_Me_? Insult _you_?" Zero could hear the playful smirk in the Scot's tone. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Zero's lips curled into a reluctant grin, choosing not to comment as he continued down the shadowed backstreets and alleys of the elaborate labyrinth that was Rio's shantytown, picking off tangos as they popped up around corners, up on balconies, on roofs and his six, _out of fucking windows like some ridiculous first-person shooter_… hurriedly but efficiently making his way up the sloping hills and hopefully _somewhere_ in the vicinity of their mark. Opening up his comm to all channels again, he wasn't surprised to hear rapid gunfire interspersed with piercing cries of affliction and vengeful profanity.

He was not, however, expecting one of said cries to be one of their own.

"Guru's been hit!" came Yammy's frantic call. "We got a man down! I repeat; _man_ _down_!"

"Watch the rooftops!" Shūhei advised, his tone clipped and short as if heavily preoccupied. "We've had a few close calls with RPGs and machine guns positioned up high! Captain, we can't provide any further cover. Chameleon's dug in and taking a lot of heat – we can't leave him, sir. He'll never make it out on his own."

"Shite… Copy, Reaper. We'll have to proceed without you. Watch your backs out there, lads, and get our boy out safe."

"Oorah, Captain!"

"Damn," Zero cursed, picking up the pace yet still exceedingly conscientious of his surroundings. "Looks like it's jus' us after all, ey Pantera?"

A deep, husky chuckle echoed in response. "I wouldn't bet on it, Snowdrop…"

"Nnoi?" Grimmjow sounded relieved. "Is that you?"

"Know a lot of slack jawed commies, do ya Captain?" Zero baited, vaulting through an open window and silencing an unsuspecting tango with his melee knife.

"_хуй_ _тебе_, _су́ка_!" Nnoitra snarled, and Zero could only imagine that cold, Russian glare as he bolted upstairs. "I'm with Demon – we're taking heavy militia fire but are hot on Ichimaru's tail! He just fled inside a building – do either of you see him?"

About to reply in the negative as his Captain just had, a flash of silver hair and pressed charcoal slacks caught in Zero's peripheral. Skidding to a halt, he rushed back to the window he just passed in time to see their target hauling himself up to the rooftop of the apartment building opposite the one he was in.

"I got 'im! He's climbin' onto a roof carrying a black duffle bag!"

"At least that ought to slow him down…" Grimmjow growled, tension heavy in his tone. He was obviously desperate, _hopeful_, and it was beginning to show through the cracks. "Zero, I'm not far from your position, I'll keep him from coming back on himself. Don't let the militia pin you down for too long – use your flashbangs if you have to and keep moving to intercept! Go, go!"

Zero didn't need to be told twice. Throwing open the window, he tossed a stun grenade out, waiting only as long as it took to detonate before leaping out and onto the rooftop below, dexterously disposing of the few tangos unfortunate enough to get caught in the blast, the fools stumbling around blind and disorientated (_easy pickings_).

"Damn, we lost sight of him again!" Nnoitra cussed venomously. "Zero, talk to me!"

Swiftly scaling up to the top of the building where he'd last seen the silver-haired warlord, orbs of molten gold wildly scanned the area. He knew just how much was riding on the capture of the scumbag, how high the stakes were and the devastating consequences should the coward slip through their fingers… He wouldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let his team and the Captain down.

He wouldn't let Vixen become just another report to fill out; another fucking statistic hashed into the database.

He would capture that conniving sonuvabitch… or he would die trying.

Allowing himself but a brief moment to cool his torrid thoughts and focus on his baser instincts, Zero closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. The sound of heavy footsteps against the flagstone streets below immediately caught his attention, even over all the clamour and screaming and _chaos_, his heightened senses distinguishing the difference between the laden clumping of thick soled boots, the likes of which the enemy wore, and the echoing slap of high quality Italian leather loafers – the likes of which their villainous, extortionist mark wore.

Racing to the edge of the rooftop and peering down, Zero gave a triumphant smirk beneath his mask and took off after Ichimaru. "I'm onto him! Grimm, he's tryin' ta double back through the alleys!"

"Roger that – stay on him!"

'_Heh, no fuckin' sweat,'_ Zero cackled to himself, following the fleeing man from his vantage point on the rooftops. He couldn't help but feel like a true predator, an eagle perhaps, circling lazily above its prey, slowly but surely tightening the noose before the inevitable dive for the kill. It was, in a word, _exhilarating_.

Keeping a sharp eye on his quarry, Zero diligently relayed the man's every frantic twist and desperate turn to the Task Force members still in pursuit.

"Tight left, Captain! He's cuttin' through the market!"

"Got ya; Christ, I'm nearly on him!" Even Grimmjow's voice was strained at this point, the blunette clearly testing the very depths of his limits. "I'll head for the rooftops and try to cut him off on the right – he's gonna have no choice but to head back west!"

Bounding across yet another gap between buildings, Zero ground his teeth when he miscalculated the trajectory and tumbled none too gracefully against the chalky stone, tearing a ragged hole in the left knee of his dark camo trousers and shredding his right forearm on loose rubble and grit. Mere seconds away from cursing up a storm, all vocabulary abruptly died on his lips as a rocket-propelled grenade soared no more than a meter above his head, leaving behind a thick trail of smoke and a catastrophic, smouldering void in the architecture some ways to his left.

Keeping low and moving fast, the rattled Lieutenant spoke shakily into his mic, "RPG in the marketplace – keep your heads down! I'm gonna find another way around before am reduced to a smear on the fuckin' wall…"

In spite of the inconvenience of nearly losing his head, it didn't take long for Zero to pick his way across a more discreet, alternate route, clambering down a rusting fire escape to the relative safety of the shady streets, and then book it after Ichimaru. Skidding to a halt in the middle of a crossroad, with _five_ different avenues to choose from, Zero lips peeled back into a snarl and he raked both hands through his choppy ashen hair.

God_damn_ it! He could not lose him now!

Ready to risk it and pick an alley at random, the sound of crumbling brick raining down from above caught his attention and he whipped round to his right, his molten gaze homing in on Ichimaru as he scrambled up and out of sight at his two o'clock.

Fighting the urge to whine in exasperation – _so troublesome_ – Zero threw himself back into the hunt. "Be advised, Grimm – Ichimaru jus' resurfaced on the rooftops."

"Copy that, Zero. If I can, I'll try to corral him back around to your position, see if we can't box him in like a rat in a trap…"

"Sir!" Nnoitra's gravelly drawl suddenly hissed. "Demon has Ichimaru in his sights – we can go for a clean leg shot; we can end it here!"

Brows furrowing when he realised that the Captain was hesitating, the temptation of finally bringing Ichimaru down evidently too seductive to ignore, Zero took it upon himself to be the voice of reason. "Negative, Sergeant! We can't risk it. Do not engage!"

"_дерьмо́_! Roger, Lieutenant – we're back in pursuit."

Zero wanted so badly to curse out Grimmjow's unbelievably asinine foolishness. Yes, Vixen was MIA, yes, they all wanted him back home with the team, safe, _where he belonged_, and yes, they were so very close to obtaining their goal after four days of perfunctory plans devised from desperation and despair…

…but if their lovesick Captain didn't screw his fucking head on straight, and soon, it would be all their necks. No one man could wash that much blood off their hands; Zero had tried.

Getting his head back in the game, Zero ejected the waning ammunition from his Desert Eagle and slapped in a fresh clip, running up a narrow concrete stairwell situated between two long since abandoned apartments, his close shave at the market and impromptu diversion leaving him in the others dust. He could hear Grimmjow and Nnoitra relaying back and forth as he raced to catch up.

"_Shite_. Mantis, he's headed for that motorcycle!"

"_Da_. We've got eyes on him…"

"Ha! Nice shot, Demon! He's not goin' anywhere on that bike now… Damn it – Zero, he's breaking right again straight towards your position. If you see him, do not shoot! We need him unharmed."

Zero couldn't retain a humourless snort. Just who was the Captain trying to remind, anyway? "Aye, sir. Not a scratch on his creepy, fox-like face. Got it."

Grimmjow's growl was low and throaty, a clear warning. "Don't get smart with me, lad. Just keep pushin' up the hill – the net's tightening and he's gettin' reckless, he may try to backtrack on himself."

"Roger," Zero replied, half paying attention to the CO's words and half focusing on the door coming up on his right. Ducking out of sight and lying in wait, it wasn't long before the door burst open and a heavily armed militia came charging out, closely succeeded by two others.

Striking with the kind of tactical speed and precision a long life in the military had bred of him, Zero caught the first man completely unawares. Wrapping an arm around his throat from behind, the guerrilla cried out in alarm, startling his two comrades and spurring them to react most negligently. Immediately opening fire with absolutely no forethought nor regard to their ally's wellbeing, Zero used the man's body as a shield against the brash gunfire, letting him suffer his brothers' incompetence, before executing both with nary more than three bullets and then slitting the dying man's throat – not out of any decent sense or morality or humanity, but because every last bastarding one of the _roaches_ deserved to _die_ for the part they had played in Vixen's capture.

Cleansing the excess blood from his blade with a neat flick of the wrist, the Lieutenant sheathed the serrated blade and pushed forward. Snarling when a wayward bullet whipped by his head much too close to be considered comfortable, he twist his upper body in the approximate direction of origin and, all without a break in pace, located the source, nailing the prick with the second shot. He couldn't afford to slow down now, not when they were verging on the very pinnacle of success. He could feel it in the thrum of his heart, taste it in the thick of the air, hear it in the frenzied chatter droning in his ear.

Victory was within arms reach and they were like ravenous beasts, salivating for the delirium of redemption, the prospect of salvation, and the peace it would bestow upon their weary souls.

"Mantis, I'm going far right – don't let the bastard out of your sight!"

"We're trying, but he's gaining ground! _о боже_, the fucker's got stamina!"

Zero could hear the husky Russian drawl of Mantis both in and out of ear and promptly took a sharp left up another set of steps, his boots hammering a staccato echo off the stone walls surrounding him.

Bursting out of the shadowed valley and into a small, cluttered clearing, flanked on his right by Nnoitra and Demon who had obviously taken the parallel street, Zero felt his gut wrench as he caught sight of Ichimaru making a break for it across the narrow ledge of a second story residence, on the other side of which was a colossal eighteen foot wall marking the border of the favela territory. If he made it across, it would take them too long to coordinate their way over, or even scale the building to give sufficient chase.

_They would lose him…_

Fingers itching to put a full metal slug in the man's kneecap (_his fucking skull_ if he had his way), Zero and his brother's could only watch as their only lead sifted through their grasp like sand.

"Shitshit_fucking__**shit**_…" Zero rambled darkly, fingers twisting helplessly into his hair. "Grimmjow! Where the _**fuck**_ are you? He's gonna get away!"

Lip curling when the blue-haired Captain had the audacity to _laugh_, the sound jarringly sinister through the crackle of their comms, he exchanged a wary glance with Mantis before the familiar Scottish brogue disrupted their thoughts.

"_No he's not…_"

No sooner had the words been uttered on a low and ominous breath than Grimmjow came bursting through the window directly in front of which Ichimaru was crossing, shards of glass catching in the Brazilian sun and sparkling like diamonds as the blunette caught their mark in a full-body tackle. Zero and Mantis cringed as the duo plummeted through the air and crash landed atop a rusting old hatchback, the roof instantly caving in under their combined weight and sealing the car's fate for the scrapyard.

Ichimaru, having taken the brunt of the two story fall, was badly winded and fighting the prelude of a nasty concussion, clearly in no condition to fight or flee any longer. Even so, Grimmjow was on him in a flash, blind to the broken glass cutting into his skin as he scrabbled to his knees, fisting the front of Ichimaru's crumpled shirt and jamming the muzzle of his handgun between hazy, glacier blue eyes.

Muscles tensing and fists shaking with adrenaline, Grimmjow had to mentally remind himself over and over, like a compulsive mantra, that there was a reason – _a very crucial reason_ – he had yet to exhaust his entire magazine in the son of a bitch's goddamn brain. God help him, it was almost too tempting to resist…

Swallowing thickly past the putrid vengeance trying to overthrow his clarity, Grimmjow reported in, his words decidedly tight. "Command, this is Captain Jaegerjaques of the Six-One-Five. We've got the package. I repeat; we have got the package."

Unable to contain it even one millisecond longer, Zero gave a loud, roguish whoop, punching a fist into the air as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

"Yeah! _Fuck_ yeah!" he cheered with a cackle, skeletal mask grinning wickedly as orbs of molten gold glittered with jubilant elation. "Tha's what ya get when ya mess with the Six-One-Five, baby! You are one badass motherfucker, Grimm! I could kiss ya right on the mouth, ya beautiful Jocky bastard!"

Grimmjow's mouth remained resolutely set, though the cerulean pools he swivelled in the XO's direction were undeniably teeming with mirth. Mantis gave a wry snort of laughter, his brother's exuberant display painfully infectious, whereas Ulquiorra merely sighed and pointedly reminded them all that they still had comrades out in the field, some of which required immediate medical attention.

Snapping back into focus at the mention of his men, Grimmjow put aside his more selfish inclinations and quickly rallied his thoughts. "The militia should be scattered and dwindling in numbers by now – when word reaches them that their head _honcho_ has fallen they'll no doubt scurry away with their tails between their legs like a pack of whipped dogs. Mantis, you head east and assemble with Reaper. Demon, double back and move north, find Bones and provide any cover necessary so he can tend to Guru. All of you regroup when you can and send your coordinates to Tia; Baby Doll will get you guys out of this hellhole."

"An' us, sir?" Zero asked, expertly twirling his pistol around his forefinger as Nnoitra and Ulquiorra set out.

Grimmjow spared him a fleeting glance before hauling himself off of the wreck of a car, dragging a groggy and groaning Ichimaru with him. "Papa Wolf, we're ready for dustoff. Send the chopper."

"Received, Captain," was Starrk's prompt response. "Bird's already in the air. Sit tight, son, we're converging on your position now. ETA ten minutes."

"Copy that; Pantera out."

"You're wastin' your time," Ichimaru suddenly rasped, thin lips curved into a malicious, foxy sneer, words loaded with more venom than a rattler. "I'm no canary; ya'll never get me ta sing."

The sheer, unadulterated fury emanating from Zero was so tangible, Grimmjow would later swear he could taste it on his tongue. "Ya toxic fuckin' parasite… I'll soon make ya _sing_, ya jammy little–"

"Calm down, Lieutenant," Grimmjow ordered sternly, halting Zero's advance with a raised hand and stony gaze.

"Calm down?" Zero snarled, golden orbs smouldering with dark intentions. "Tha' slimey fuck has _Vixen_, Grimm, and has had for _four days_ now. He probably has 'im locked up somewhere, beaten an' tortured an' fuck only knows what else – if he's even _still alive_ – an' you want me to _calm down_?"

"I know that!" Grimmjow snapped, cerulean eyes blazing. "But what good will interrogation be if you knock all his goddamn teeth out, huh?"

"Heh, ya don't need teeth ta talk, Captain…" Zero replied with a sinister grin, cracking his knuckles.

"No," Grimmjow barked, his sharp tone leaving no room for further argument. "We wait for Papa Wolf."

With a roar of resentment, Zero directed his festering rage on the demolished hatchback, putting a sizeable dent in the side panelling with his boot. "Fuck that!" he growled, lashing out with one last devastating kick before storming off. "Fuck _that_, fuck _him_, and _fuck **you**_, _sir_!"

"Maa, what a hot-blooded lil' stallion," Ichimaru practically purred, making Grimmjow's innards curl. "It's a shame we didn't get a hold'a that one instead of your pretty little redhead… It's more fun when they don't break easy, and I do so love a challenge."

Grimmjow knew he was being a hypocrite even before his gloved knuckles ever made contact with Ichimaru's bony cheek, the crack solid enough to split skin and send the man sprawling; but he just couldn't help himself, not where Ichigo was concerned. It was like his body went into autopilot any time his name was mentioned, a trait certainly not limited to the spluttering scumbag laid out on the baked earth by his feet. Cold cerulean eyes watched with a detached kind of callousness as Ichimaru hacked and coughed, spitting up globules of blood as he shakily rose to his knees. Hunkering down, Grimmjow's expressionless face was the picture of quiet malice…

…_the calm before the fucking **maelstrom**_.

"Mention the kid's name ever again, even in passing, and it's not Zero you'll have to worry about." Grabbing a fistful of Ichimaru's silver hair, he snapped the man's head back until bleary blue eyes gazed up at him, his inner predator purring contently at the heady fusion of mounting dread and budding panic shining through in spite of the fog of disorientation. "Can you hear me in there, Gin? I hope you can. Ya see, you took something from me, from all of us; something highly valuable and wholly irreplaceable." Reaching into his shirt, he reverently fingered the cold metal chain resting against his collarbone, slightly shorter than his own, before closing his fist around it and tugging it free with one, firm yank. Thumb skimming over the twin tags with soft, affectionate strokes, the blunette dangled the necklace in front of Ichimaru's face. "I'm a hunter, Gin; a cold-blooded_ killer_. I protect my own with my life and will cut down _anyone_ who compromise their safety without so much as batting an eye. You're truly unlucky, friend. That boy you stole from me, he's not just one of my men; he's also _my heart_."

Releasing Ichimaru's hair, Grimmjow's wrapped his hand around the man's porcelain skinned throat instead, barely repressing the overwhelming urge to _squeeze the goddamn fucking life right out of him_, brandishing the dog tags in front of his unfocused eyes like the charge to a WMD.

"Take a good, _hard_ look, Gin. I want you to brand the image of these tags into your skull, into your fucking _brain_… because if I don't get my boy back in one piece; and I mean every single hair follicle in place, then they're gonna be the last fuckin' thing you'll ever see." Inclining forward, so that his lips were pressed menacingly close to Ichimaru's ear, the man shuddering with every breath that licked against his balmy skin, Grimmjow growled like no beast Ichimaru had ever heard before; "If my heart isn't returned to me, then you better believe that I'm coming back – back for _you_, Gin, where I'll rip out my compensation, _still-beating_, from your _fucking chest_."

It was only then, when Grimmjow pulled back, when the mohawked Captain slowly rose, his stature shadowed against the sun and suddenly so incredibly imposing, gazing down at him with such cruel, anguished eyes, that Ichimaru realised he'd gone too far this time, taken the wrong hostage, tangled with the wrong man… There was a beast stirring just under the surface of the Captain's skin, it's teeth pointed, bared, _famished _– and he had gone and woken it from its slumber.

Whether they executed him tomorrow, or he died a wrinkled, haggard old man, was utterly irrelevant; he would never forget those glinting silver dog tags, blemished with age and smudged with dried blood, for as long as he lived…

**0 POS**

**2073521**

**ICHIGO**

**KUROSAKI**

**ARMY**

**RC**

…they would haunt his every nightmare for evermore.

* * *

_'Shadow Company is a different breed. No more vodka-drunk Ultranationalists. They're trained like we are._  
_But a surprise is a surprise, no defense. Shepherd knew that now he'll know differently. **MOTHERFUCKER HAS NO IDEA WHO'S COMING.**'_

_Entry from 'Soap's Journal'_

* * *

A/N: Hoo-boy... Long chapter is _long_. And comin' from me ya know that's sayin' something!

That being said, I had a lot of fun writin' this. I don't know what it is - perhaps the guns, the fast-paced action, the close-knit camaraderie between the boys, the fact that I constantly picture my Grimmjow/Soap hybrid as I write him... I dunno. But I love it regardless~

To help progress the story along a bit, as well as establish the GrimmIchi lovin' we're all looking forward to, I'll concentrate the next part throughout the 18 months before Ichigo's capture; so no present day stuff next time. We'll see Grimmjow and Ichigo's relationship blossom, as well as little snippets into Ichigo's personal thoughts through his journal, as well as the usual shenanigans from the Task Force 615. Sound cool? I'll jus' go ahead and assume you're all noddin' along... ^^'

The dog tags I used for Ichigo at the end are in loving memory of Captain John "Soap" MacTavish, jus' in case y'all were wondering. Also, I've noticed that I tend ta make Aaroneiro come across as quite young and naive, and I don't exactly know why? I picture him in my head when I'm writin' and for some reason he always comes across as a simple little cutie-pie! And yes, when Shu an' Nnoi are winding said simpleton up, they are in fact reciting Stig quotes. As soon as I wrote the words "some say..." all I could hear was Jeremy Clarkson's voice echoing in my head. So creepy, I know.

I'm sorry if it seemed rushed at some points, but unfortunately I had to make it quite brisk - for those out there who play the game, ya'll know what I mean when I say that the games are _overflowing_ with enemies, and whilst highly entertaining in that context, it would be ridiculously impossible in real life to escape that many foes without taking a bullet (or several) - not to mention when ya get hit in the game, you instantly revive/respawn. Our poor boys wouldn't be so lucky...

Oh, an' just for a little sneak-peak into what's milling around in my head for the next instalment; I was listening to Daddy Yankee's "Gasolina", when I was struck with the rather delicious mental image of Grimm-yums, Ichigo and the rest of the Task Force boys peeling off their skin-tight shirts in slow motion during a rainstorm... and thanks to that bone-meltingly hot picture, I see a game of _**mud-football**_ in the near future - totally ripped, topless army men tackling and wrestling each other in the sludge? Uhh, yes please!

What? Oh, come on! It'll be good for bonding and, um... team building and other such pertinent exercises...

Ahem. So yeah! Please do enjoy if ya like, my sweets~

Ciao for now,

**Toringtino**

~**x**~


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